by Linda Ford
Dawson sighed long and hard. “Isabelle, pay him no mind. He’s old and thinks that gives him the right to say anything that pops into his mind.”
“Now wait a minute. Don’t you be apologizing for me. I’ll do my own apologizing when it needs to be done. And right now it doesn’t. I spoke the truth.” Grandfather harrumphed. “One never needs to apologize for the truth.”
Dawson harrumphed right back.
Isabelle could not help herself. She burst out laughing.
Both pairs of blue eyes came to her full of surprise.
She tried to contain her amusement. “I’m sorry,” she gasped. “But I grew up an only child. Mealtimes were always quiet and serious.” She laughed again, tears streaming down her face.
Both pairs of eyes narrowed.
“Are you saying we’re loud?” Grandfather said.
“Are you suggesting our table manners could use improvement?” Dawson demanded, his eyes less friendly than his grandfather’s.
She sobered. “I’ve never before enjoyed this kind of teasing around a table. I think it’s special. The way families ought to be.”
Both men relaxed and smiled at each other.
“She likes it,” Dawson said.
“Of course she does. Like I’ve been trying to tell you—”
Dawson pushed back from the table before his grandfather could finish. “I do believe I will go check on the girls.”
Isabelle got up, too. “I’ll be there as soon as I clean up.”
Grandfather sighed. “No one wants to listen to my advice.”
Isabelle chuckled softly and bent to kiss the old man’s leathery cheek. “You’ve made your opinion very clear.”
He brightened and caught her arm to pull her close and kiss her cheek. “I did, didn’t I?”
Isabelle chuckled again as she quickly cleaned the kitchen and hurried upstairs to check on Annie and Mattie.
Grandfather’s opinion was indeed very clear but it wasn’t his that mattered.
Dawson was in Mattie’s room, so she checked on Annie first.
Annie opened her eyes. “Is Mattie okay? Is Grandfather okay?”
She washed Annie’s face and arms again. “Everyone is fine. You rest and let us take care of you and the others.”
Annie closed her eyes as the cloth rubbed her face. “That feels so good. Thank you.” Her eyes opened. “What do we have?”
“Kate thinks it’s the measles. Says we’ll know for sure if you get a rash.”
“Oh, lovely.”
Isabelle grinned at her tone.
Annie’s eyes drifted closed and Isabelle slipped away to Mattie’s room. Two chairs had been placed by her bed and Dawson sat in one, talking to his daughter.
Mattie smiled and reached out her hand as Isabelle entered.
Isabelle sank to the chair next to Dawson. Apart from the fact Annie and Mattie were sick, it was pleasant to sit together beside the child.
A shiver crossed her shoulders. But wasn’t she living a life of pretense? Pretending she was someone she wasn’t? When was she going to tell Dawson the truth about who she was, and more important, how would he react?
Chapter Thirteen
“Where’s Isabelle?” Mattie’s voice thinned with her misery. “Did you make her leave?”
“She went to see Aunt Annie.” Dawson couldn’t still a little thread of annoyance making its way through his brain at Mattie’s worry as to why Isabelle wasn’t with him, and then her eager welcome when Isabelle stepped into the room. Annoyance at himself. He could handle the disappointment when Isabelle left or determined she didn’t care for any more ranch life. But his daughter would be hurt and he could only blame himself. From the beginning he’d warned himself to ignore the way his heart opened to her. To his credit, he’d tried to put an end to any contact. Yeah, he thought with self-mockery, he’d given a halfhearted attempt, more than a little relieved when Mattie had insisted she stay with Isabelle after school.
And now look where they were. The two of them side by side, tending Mattie and Annie.
Mattie sat up and leaned toward Isabelle, who sat beside him. Had he purposely positioned the chairs so close their arms brushed? He allowed he might have.
“Does everyone get the measles?” Mattie asked.
Dawson felt Isabelle’s startled look come to him and turned to meet it.
“I don’t know,” Isabelle admitted. “Do they?”
Dawson shrugged, barely able to remember the question at the way he felt drawn into her dark, bottomless eyes. He felt himself swimming through a warm, fragrant mist, heading toward a place that promised the fulfillment of all his dreams.
“Did you have them?” Mattie asked.
Dawson jerked his attention back to his daughter. “I did, along with both your uncles.” Though he wondered if he was mistaken and had spiked a fever at this very moment. That would explain his foolish imaginings.
“Did you?” Mattie asked Isabelle.
“Yes, I did.” Something about the sweetness in Isabelle’s tone brought Dawson’s attention back to her. But, thankfully, she looked at Mattie, saving him from himself. “I remember my mama sitting with me, her long black hair in a thick braid. I liked to hold the braid and feel the silkiness of her hair.”
At Mattie’s soft sigh, Dawson shifted his gaze back to his daughter. Her eyes were wide, filled with dreamy thoughts. “Your mama loved you.”
“Yes, she did. I had a nanny but Mama insisted on taking care of me herself when I was ill.”
“Tell me stories about your mama.”
Isabelle darted a look at Dawson as if gauging his reaction to all this talk about mothers. Then determination replaced inquiry. She meant to say what she thought Mattie needed to hear.
He had granted her permission to talk about Mattie’s mother. He just hadn’t thought he’d have to be in attendance but he had no intention of leaving this room. Though, he reasoned, Mattie had asked to hear about Isabelle’s mother, not her own. He should feel relieved. He wasn’t sure he did.
“What sort of stories do you want to hear?” Isabelle took Mattie’s hand as she talked.
“What did she look like? Did she play with you?”
“My mama was beautiful. She’d been born in Spain and had the dark eyes and dark hair of her family.”
“Like you.” Mattie touched a strand of Isabelle’s black hair. “You must look like her. You’re beautiful, too.”
Red stained her cheeks. “Thank you, but my mother was very, very beautiful. And she had the sweetest voice. I wish you could have heard her sing.”
Another soft, lonesome sigh from Mattie. The almost imperceptible sound ached through Dawson. He remembered Mattie’s distress when Violet had disappeared from her life but he’d never considered the ache had remained.
Isabelle continued. “Mama told me stories about life in Spain. About the horses her family raised. How the family would gather under the olive trees for the midday meal. The trips to the Mediterranean Sea every summer. But the stories I liked best were of the games she played as a child.”
“What sort of games?” Mattie tensed in anticipation.
“Rayuela was one Mama taught me. It’s like hopscotch. I loved it when she played with me. She was very good. She never lost her balance.”
For a few minutes, Mattie sat mesmerized as Isabelle recounted tales about growing up with a loving, attentive mother.
Dawson, too, felt himself carried along by her words, imagining an idyllic childhood full of love…the sort of life he had dreamed of for his own child.
Mattie looked away from them. “I wish I could remember my mama.”
“Your mother was beautiful.” The words came from behind a door thrown open by Isabelle’s stories. She was right. Good memories were healing and he would do his best to give some to Mattie. “I remember the first time I saw her. She had come to town with some others. Strange, I can’t even remember who she was with. But the first time I saw her, I was smitten.”
“Smitten?” Mattie sounded confused. “What does that mean?”
He chuckled. “It means I liked what I saw.”
“What did she look like?”
“She had eyes like yours, as green as they were blue. And your hair is almost the same color as hers—like gold in the sunlight.”
Mattie had a pleased smile on her lips.
Isabelle leaned closer, pressing against his arm. Was it intentional or did she think only of Mattie? He liked to think she had both of them in mind.
“All the young men were smitten. Even Uncle Jesse.”
Isabelle shifted, putting several inches between them, something that he regretted. “The sheriff is your brother?”
“He’s Conner’s best friend and has spent so much time here Mattie took to calling him Uncle Jesse.” He suddenly realized something. “We see a lot less of him now that he’s sheriff.”
“Did Uncle Jesse like Mama?” Mattie sounded concerned, as if she imagined rivalry between Dawson and Jesse.
“Like I said, everyone was smitten, but your mama picked me to be her beau.” In hindsight, he wondered if Jesse and the others had seen Violet for who she really was and had not pursued her for that reason.
Mattie giggled. “’Cause you were the handsomest of them all.”
He dared not look at Isabelle as heat crept up his neck at his daughter’s adoration. He couldn’t speak for a moment as he considered the facts. Violet might have thought him handsome to begin with, but then she found reasons to complain about him. He was too big. His big boots got in the way. He took up too much space. Why had he let her comments bother him? With a start, he realized they no longer did. Perhaps it was Mattie’s admiration that took the sting from those words. Or it might even be the touch of Isabelle’s arm against his.
“Tell me more,” Mattie begged.
He found he could talk of Violet without pain and only mild regret. After all, she’d given him this precious child. “She was so full of life. So eager for excitement.”
It was more than that, he realized now. She was restless and unhappy and blamed everyone around her for her state of mind. The truth was, he saw so clearly now that he wondered how he’d ever believed otherwise, something inside her had seemed to be missing and she’d sought it in all the wrong ways—excitement, adventure, new activities. His mind at ease in a way he’d almost forgotten existed, he told Mattie how her mama chose pretty bonnets for Mattie as a baby and how she liked to brush Mattie’s hair and do special things with it.
Mattie’s eyes began to droop.
“It’s time for you to rest.”
She protested weakly.
Isabelle sponged Mattie’s face and arms, then tucked her into bed with a kiss.
“Can you sing to me, like your mama did?” Mattie asked.
With a half-apologetic glance at Dawson, she sat on the edge of the bed.
Why should she feel sorry? To his regret, he admitted he’d given her every reason to feel he didn’t want her spending time with his daughter. To his shame, he’d even suggested she was unsuitable simply because she was…what? A city woman? A newcomer? Beautiful?
All those things could mean danger. Or they could mean nothing.
He wasn’t sure he had changed his mind, but it became harder and harder to remember his reasons.
Isabelle crooned a song in Spanish.
He sat, as mesmerized by her sweet voice as Mattie was. In a distant corner of his brain, a warning voice called, reminding him how caring for Isabelle could end in disappointment and wrenching pain. The voice was drowned out by the sound of her voice and by the blossoming of his distant dreams.
Mattie’s eyes drifted shut.
Isabelle brushed her fingers over Mattie’s face, from forehead to chin. She leaned close and kissed each cheek. “Sweet dreams, little princess.”
The word jolted clear through Dawson. Princess. Was that how Isabelle saw his child? His throat tightened. His eyes burned. So many people loved and cared for Mattie but something about Isabelle’s tender touch and sweet words felt different.
She rose from the bed.
Dawson stood up, too, and they faced each other, so close he could watch her pupils narrow, see the way her black eyebrows thinned to a point at the outer corner of her eyes. He could feel her breath go in and out, and he inhaled the scent of sandalwood and honey.
Their look went on and on. The air seemed to shimmer between them. All his doubts and fears flew out the door. He lowered his gaze. At this moment, he was acutely aware of everything she seemed to offer—beauty clothed in tenderness, tenderness wrapped in love. A never-ending circle.
With a half smile she sidestepped him. “I’ll check on Annie, then see if your grandfather needs anything.”
His lungs emptied with a whoosh as she left the room. He heard her speaking to Annie, and then her footsteps returned. She paused outside the door. “Are you staying here?”
It would be the best thing for his state of mind and yet he caught himself answering, “No, I’ll come with you.” And his feet carried him down the stairs at her side.
Grandfather sat in the parlor, his book open on his lap and his head hanging down.
“He’s asleep.”
Grandfather’s head jerked up. “I was resting my eyes.” He didn’t even try to hide a yawn.
“Would you like tea?” Isabelle asked, her voice calm, as if unaffected by the minutes spent tending Mattie with Dawson at her side.
Dawson wished he could get himself even halfway back to unaffected.
“I’d like that,” Grandfather said and started to struggle to his feet.
Dawson knew better than to offer help.
Isabelle waved at him to stay sitting. “I’ll bring tea in here.”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
“None whatsoever.”
Dawson followed her into the kitchen. He thought to assist her but how many hands did it take to fill the kettle and wait for it to boil, gather together cups and set them on a tray? Besides, he kind of liked watching her move about as if she knew her way around the kitchen.
The thought slapped him on the side of the head. One of his disappointments with Violet was her inability to manage a kitchen, let alone a home, and yet here was Isabelle bustling about, making tea for them as if she’d done it all her life.
He leaned his elbows on the top of the table, rested his chin on his hands and watched.
She poured water over the tea leaves and set the pot on the tray, then went to the cupboard by the stove. “I think I saw some cookies in here. Yes, here they are. Do you think Annie will mind if we eat them?”
“I’m sure she won’t mind at all.”
“I’ll bake some tomorrow to replace them.” She glanced over her shoulder as if to make sure he understood her intent. She grew confused. “What? Did I do something wrong?”
He sat up. “No. Why would you think that?”
“Because you were staring at me as if I’d made a mistake.”
“I wasn’t. If you must know the truth, I was admiring how easily you took over running the kitchen.”
She turned to face him full on. “You were?”
“Why are you so surprised?” It stung that she misjudged him. “Do you think me so critical?”
Her little laugh seemed more doubtful than mirthful. “Let me see, perhaps because I heard you say I was unsuitable for anything useful.” Each word rang with accusation and hurt. “Maybe because you said I couldn’t be around Mattie.”
“Then, if you care to recall, I changed my mind.”
She went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “Or it might be because you took me to the waterfall, treated me like you enjoyed my company then turned all cold and dismissive. It might even be all of those things and even things you didn’t say but communicated clearly.”
When she reached for the tea tray, he took it but didn’t immediately carry it through to where Grandfather waited. “Isabelle, my experience with
women may have left me a little jaded.”
“Only a little?” She marched into the sitting room.
What could he do but follow and sit with a cup of tea while she gave Grandfather a report on the girls upstairs?
“Annie is the sicker of the two but she was resting when I left.”
Grandfather ate a cookie and drank his tea then pushed to his feet. “It’s time for this old man to go to bed. I’ll leave you young ones to make sure the girls are okay. Don’t hesitate to waken me if they get worse. I wouldn’t want to sleep through their need. Good night.” He gave Dawson a look no doubt meant to instruct him to treat Isabelle right before he trundled through the door to his bedroom.
Dawson and Isabelle sat in silence, concentrating on the contents of their teacups as if they could avoid each other.
Isabelle broke the awkward silence first. “Thank you for telling Mattie about her mother. I know it meant a great deal to her.”
Dawson thought to point out how odd it was for her to thank him, when Mattie was his daughter and his concern. But he knew Isabelle shared a love for his child. “I should never have married Violet.”
“So you’ve said. I’m sorry your marriage was so unhappy.”
“I thought her excitement would translate into eagerness to care for a home and family.”
“And it didn’t?”
He shook his head. “She was spoiled. Her parents gave her everything she wanted.”
“What do you mean?” Despite the bitterness he couldn’t keep from his voice, she sounded calm, sympathetic.
“She had everything money could buy.”
“But, Dawson, money can’t buy everything. It can’t buy affection or time or satisfaction.”
He didn’t care to hear Violet defended. “She was dissatisfied.”
“Then she doesn’t sound spoiled so much as deprived.”
He gave her a look loaded with disbelief.
Her smile was gentle. “She might have everything she wanted but did she have what she needed?”
His eyebrows rose.
“Could it be she was looking for meaning in things, possessions, and even new experiences? Perhaps searching for something to fill the emptiness within?”
